


Love Looks Not With The Eyes, But The Mind

by GrannyBoo



Series: And therefore, is winged Cupid painted blind [1]
Category: Undeadwood (Web-series)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sick Fic, UnDeadwood, warning: sickness, warning: vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-17 00:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrannyBoo/pseuds/GrannyBoo
Summary: While not the most situationally aware person in the group, Matthew notices rather quickly that something is wrong here. That something is wrong with Clayton.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: And therefore, is winged Cupid painted blind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1532381
Comments: 9
Kudos: 138





	Love Looks Not With The Eyes, But The Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first contribution to the Queer Cowboy Squad fandom, hopefully I’m able to add more soon <3

While not the most situationally aware person in the group, Matthew notices rather quickly that something is wrong here. That something is wrong with Clayton.

It started while the group were out in the middle of the woods, investigating rumours of a creature that was making off with livestock from one of Deadwood’s primary suppliers, Al making it abundantly clear the importance of eliminating this threat with many an obscenity and even more coin, with the implied threat that they not return until its found and taken care of. The group stock up on enough supplies for a few days away from Deadwood- not wanting to make the 24 hour round trip repeatedly and make it to the woods with little issue.

The first day went well until an unintended shoulder check from Matthew as he’s spooked by the call of a strange creature (“It was a deer, Reverend, a perfectly ordinary _deer_”) sent Clayton stumbling into a particularly deep section of a large pond, a few worrisome moments passing before the gunslinger emerges from the water, sputtering and letting out hacking coughs. He looked for all the world like a half-drowned feral cat with the way he rounded on Matthew and snarled out a variety of threats, held back only by a razor thin string of self-restraint and Aloysius’ barely maintained grip on the man’s shoulder. The reverend didn’t begrudge Clayton’s refusal to meet his eye or speak to him as the temperature dropped and he was forced to shiver and trudge his way through the woods for the rest of the day.

Matthew didn’t notice any sort of abnormalities from their quietest companion at first, perhaps the odd throat clear or cough but nothing else amiss beyond the understandable silent treatment. As the sun descended over the horizon at the end of the third day, painting the sky above with warm oranges and golds before they descended into deep purple and then black as the stars brightened into view in the dark. The Reverend caught Clayton, out of the corner of his eye, (almost not recognising him without his coat or hat while they hang on a branch nearby and dry) struggling with his horse’s saddle and saddle pad; a strange sight from the only one of their party with more than a glancing acquaintance with horse riding.

He happened to turn at that moment and meet Matthew’s gaze, sending a silent message for him to stop staring or dare say something. Matthew doesn’t quite have the bravery to test the gunslinger’s fluctuating levels of patience so he averts his gaze and sets about organising the group’s sleeping arrangement while Aly cooked and the ladies discussed their findings for the day and plotted their next move based on Arabella’s assessment of the creature they’re hunting- something-cabra.

Plenty of conversation between the other four as they sat around the campfire, enjoying the simple stew Aly arranged, but Clayton was silent as ever, only responding to the others with grunts, nods, and shakes when directly addressed, ending any further attempts at conversation with him by standing and leaving the circle with a rough mumble about taking first watch for the night, as he often did.

He preferred to stay up late rather than have his sleep disturbed or be forced to wake early, and he bid the group goodnight as he did any other night they happened to sleep in the same space. His words were few and quiet, more a husky grunt as he focused on cleaning his weapons and watching their surroundings.

Matthew always took a little longer to find rest when they were out on a job, used to listening to the crackle of the fire between them all, the quiet, even breaths of his companions, and the clicks and scrapes of Clayton pulling apart his weapons and reassembling them.

This time, though, the relative quiet is interrupted by quiet grunts of frustration and effort, deep-in-the-chest coughs and the scrapes of metal against metal sound rougher- more forced- like Clayton was having to take more tries at reassembling the parts.

“Is everything alright, Mister Sharpe?” the Reverend keeps his voice soft, attempting to avoid waking the others but apparently it has done its job too well, because the gunslinger doesn’t seem to have heard him either. The priest pushes himself upright, squinting into the dark just outside of their camp while his vision adjusts and he can see Sharpe seated on a rock with his gun in pieces before him while he struggles with replacing the cylinder.

“Mister Sharpe?” Matthew tries again, bringing himself to his feet and approaching the other man, trying to keep as much in eye-line as possible. As he gets closer, he can see the light sheen of sweat covering the other man’s skin, despite having shed his coat, and vest, his shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose the smattering of hair on his chest. Its not until the Reverend is less than six feet from him that Clayton finally takes notice, swaying on the spot as he looks up and blinks, trying on focus on what’s in front of him.

“Wha’sit Rever’nd,” the slur of his words and the prominent flush in his cheeks isn’t comforting, nor is the way the pieces of his revolver slip out of his hand and clatter onto its companion pieces. Matthew drops to one knee, hands open and placating as he reaches for the other’s man’s face, his concern increasing as the man not only allows the touch but seems to lean into it with an almost relieved sigh; his skin is scalding to the touch.

“Just a moment, Mister Sharpe-“ Matthew goes to stand, to wake the others and let them know of their companion’s condition but a firm grip on his wrist as he moves gives him pause and the way Clayton looks up at him, for a moment almost as confused by his own actions as Matthew is.

“Where’re ya goin’?”

“To wake the others. You are not well, my friend-“

“‘M fine-” Clayton insists, immediately refuting his words as he goes pale as a sheet, wracked with painful, hacking coughs before he hunches forward, narrowly missing his and Matthew’s shoes with his vomit.

“You most certainly are not- hey!” He calls out, the others snapping into consciousness and looking for the threat, finding only their companions.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Arabella asks, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders as she rises from her bedroll and approaches, quick to cover her mouth with the edge of the blanket as the smell of sick assaults her nose.

“He isn’t well-“

“We can see that,” Aly snarks, pouring some water from his canteen onto a cloth and bringing it over, “come on, he needs to lie down.”

It takes some careful manoeuvring and convincing to get Clayton to lie on his bedroll by the fire and even more to make sure he stays still and lets the wet cloth remain on his forehead.

“What’s causing this? It wasn’t in the food, else we all would’ve gotten sick, no offence to you Aly,” Miriam assures when he bristles at the unintended accusation, “something could’ve gone bad without our notice.”

“Snake bite? Did he cry out before you checked on him Reverend?” Bella asks. Matthew shakes his head, crouched down by Clayton’s thigh while Arabella squeezes out some of the excess water and dabs at the man’s head.

“No, I just heard him struggling with his gun…earlier he was also having trouble with his horse, he doesn’t normally struggle with that. Perhaps…when he fell-“

“The water,” she agrees. “He needs to see Cochran.”

“We’re half a day’s ride from Deadwood and he’s in no condition to ride,” Miriam attempts to collect all the pieces of Clayton’s gun and wrap them in the cloth, packing them into his bag.

“We could risk it and stay out here, hope he’s a little better in the morning?” Aly suggests but it sounds unsure and half-hearted at best.

“He’ll need to ride tandem with someone. Its too risky being out in the cold and without the proper means of keeping him hydrated and warm, especially when something nearby is picking off livestock. It may think we’re close enough,” Bella is ensuring Sharpe’s head is comfortably placed on his folded up coat, dabbing his forehead with the cloth while Matthew watches on, feeling uneasy with the way Clayton’s fever-glassy eyes are focused on him and him alone.

“Reverend, do you think you could hold him steady on the horse?”

Matthew startles a little at being addressed directly but looks to Arabella.

“Why not Aly? He’s a better rider than I.”

“You’re bigger and have a longer reach,” she reasons, pausing to check his temperature again. “It would be easier for us to ride faster if we know he’s going to be upright. Only way that’s happening is if you can sit him up and keep him propped against your back or leaning back against you.”

“Don’-“ Clayton murmurs, jerking a little, reaching out to curl his fingers around Arabella’s hand.

“Its’ alright,” she soothes, brushing some of his sweat-matted hair away from his forehead.

“Don’-“ he tries again, licking at chapped lips, using more than a little effort to keep himself focused enough to speak. “Don’ leave me?” It comes as more of a question, small and afraid, and Arabella shares a look with Matthew, then Miriam and Aloysius.

“Of course not. You’re coming with us,” she assures, and the quiet panic that has been spreading through his body starts to fade. “We’re going to get you to the good doctor and he’ll fix you right up,” and that seems to be the wrong thing to say, the words making Clayton’s eyes widen with a primal fear.

“Doc- T-to Doctor? N-no,” his breathing shortens and speeds up and he’s suddenly struggling to leave his bedroll, shoving away Arabella, then Aly’s hands. “Don’ wanna- not goin’, _can’t make me_, _please don’ make me-“ _he stumbles to his knees, fingers tangling in Matthew’s shirt as he starts to lose his balance.

“Clayton-“ Matthew finds himself with an armful of frantic gunslinger when Clayton tips into him, trembling and smelling of sweat and the faint traces of vomit still lingering on his breath.

“Don’ make me go, Jacky-“ Clayton whimpers, looking up at Matthew with the kind of panic you’d see in the eyes of a child afraid of the monsters under the bed.

“I’m not-…It’ll be alright, no one will hurt you, I promise,” the Reverend assures and Clayton’s frantic expression fades into relative calm, then confusion.

“Reverend?”

Matthew breathes in relief, glancing over at the others, who were frozen in place, watching the interaction.

“Yes, yes its me, Clayton.” The gunslinger blinks slowly, looking down at his hands, still curled in the fabric of Matthew’s shirt, releasing it only to place his palm flat on the priest’s chest.

“‘M not feelin’ so good,” he admits, curling in on himself a little so his head rests against Matthew’s collarbone.

“We need to get him to Cochran,” Arabella murmurs, moving quickly around the camp to collect their belongings. “If he’s hallucinating- his body can’t take a fever this high for long…he needs help.” Her words urge everyone around them into action, Matthew trapped beneath the trembling weight of Clayton who’s seen fit to try try his damndest to burrow into the Reverend’s chest, murmuring about shadows, eyes, and other ramblings Matthew couldn’t make sense of.

It takes them the better part of 20 minutes to gather their things and saddle up the horses, carefully transferring Clayton from Matthew’s arms to beside his horse. Once the Reverend is in position, Aly helps the gunslinger up onto the saddle in front of Matthew, catching him before he slumps forward too far. It takes a firm arm around Clayton’s waist to keep him upright, leaning back into the preacher’s chest and providing a near scalding warmth against him.

“I’ve got Sharpe’s horse hitched to mine,” Aly assures, “If you need us to slow down or stop, holler,” and he’s gone, practically leaping into the saddle of his own mount, the party taking off back towards Deadwood.

“‘M sorry…” Clayton murmurs, barely audible beneath the thudding of hooves and rush of wind but with how close to Matthew’s ear he is, he can just make out the slurred, not-quite-there words. “Don’-…don’ wanna…” he rambles before falling silent, body going entirely lax against Matthew’s chest. If not for the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the noisy rattle to his breaths, the Reverend might have called out in fear the man had passed already but the unnerving silence from him urged him to move faster, a careful arm around Clayton’s waist as he kicks the horse into a gallop, taking the lead of the party for a short time before they catch up. He shares a quick look with Arabella, seeing her grim nod of understanding.

Its well into midday when they party make it into Deadwood, only slowing to a canter to avoid being shot at for causing a ruckus before they come to a stop outside of Cochran’s, Aloysius and Arabella sliding off of their horses and darting over to the Reverend’s while Miriam starts frantically knocking on the doctor’s door.

“He’s out cold,” Matthew feels the warmth of Clayton’s body leave him as the others carry him down, looking up at the slamming of the door. Cochran stands in the doorframe, watching the scene with a clinical gaze before waving them all inside. Matthew almost trips in his haste to dismount from his horse, taking one of Clayton’s arms and slinging it around his shoulder while Aly takes the other. He finds it difficult to focus on what’s going on around him beyond the general noise of Bella speaking rapidly to the doctor and the too-limp body of their companion as he and Aloysius carry him across the threshold.

“Lay him down there,” Doc orders, motioning towards the cot against the wall while he scrounges through his cabinets, pulling out various bottles and vials. “You said he might’ve breathed in pond water before the symptoms showed up?”

Arabella explains the events leading up to the evening before in a level of detail Mason didn’t even begin to try to follow as she ties her hair up and out of the way, busying herself with assisting the doctor with his work. Miriam starts removing the small accessories adorning Clayton’s body- his neck-tie, his pocket watch, the one ring on his right hand- before mopping the sweat from his brow. Matthew feels Aly’s hand on his shoulder, leading him outside with a request for assistance with the horses that Matthew wants so badly to refuse…but he would do nothing more helpful than stand there and get in the way if he remained.

He glances towards the still-flushed face of Clayton, feeling his heart wrench at the sight, before saying a silent prayer and stepping out of the office.

-

—

——

—

-

It takes them a little bit to organise the horses and inform Al of the issues surrounding their return (it’s a lot of standing there while the man shouts and cusses until Aloysius ‘calmly’ informs him that there’s little chance of them successfully killing the creature when their marksman is incapacitated). By the time they return, Cochran has finished up his diagnosis and what little he can do in treating him for the time being.

Mason can’t help but obey the tug towards Clayton when he sees him, mostly covered by a thin blanket and breathing raggedly in the cot. The man’s skin is sheet-white beneath the pink flush covering his cheeks and spreading down his neck, the raspy and uneven breaths send a sympathetic tickle down the Reverend’s throat and his skin is still hot to the touch as Matthew places a gentle hand on Clayton’s shoulder, the tug in his chest strengthening when the unconscious man’s head turns towards him and he seems to curl into the contact.

“It was touch and go for a time there,” Cochran explains, packing away his cabinet, save a few bottles he secrets away in a small back that he hands to Arabella. “It still is. He needs to be kept warm, follow the instructions on those bottles and…well only time’ll tell,” he adds quietly, glancing towards Mason. “Last rites aren’t necessary at the moment…”

The implied ‘but they might be’ makes the reverend’s hackles raise a little, fighting the urge to glare at the good doctor for only being realistic.

The next few days are a little bit of a blur for the Reverend; organising for a spare cot in Clayton’s room and working out the watch schedule, learning from Arabella what medicine needed to be administered and when. Clayton gets worse as the days drag on to the point where the legitimacy of performing last rites on the man were discussed until the Reverend walked out, far harsher words than he’d normally allow himself hovering in the back of his throat. Thankfully, the worst of the fever breaks and he starts to improve, a few more days passing until Mason is standing in the doorway, ready to take the graveyard shift on day six of their watch schedule.

“He drank some tea a little bit ago,” Miriam says, collecting her coat and shoes, laying her hand over the reverend’s forearm as she passes by him, bidding him a quiet goodnight. Then Matthew is alone. Clayton’s raspy breathing always sets him a little on edge, but he definitely looks a little more peaceful, not as pale or as restless in his sleep. He pulls up the chair to the bedside with a sigh, a book borrowed from Arabella in his hands, readying himself for a long watch.

The first few hours are uneventful, the preacher is able to make it through a good quarter of the book before a harsh coughing fit pulls him from the pages. Clayton’s eyes are open and he struggles to curl onto his side, burying his face in the covers. Mason drops the book onto the side table and kneels across the bed, helping Clayton onto his side properly, facing away from the centre of bed just as he vomits onto the wooden floor beside it. It takes a moment to steady his breathing again, at least enough to calm the panic wracking him as his body refuses to take in enough air.

“Its alright, breathe, just breathe for me,” Matthew’s gentle voice seems to help, the shaking man finally able to relax with a heavy sigh into the blankets, his nose scrunching a little at the foul taste in his mouth. The reverend fishes through the small pack containing Clayton’s medicine for some mint leaves, helping him sit up just enough to swish some water around his mouth and then chew some of the sharp smelling leaves while Mason sets about cleaning up what’s mostly bile and tea with some cloths set on the desk.

“Rev’rend…how long ‘s I out?” Clayton murmurs, swallowing the mint leaves while he tries to push himself up against the headboard, struggling at first until Matthew pauses in his cleaning and slips a careful arm beneath him and assists.

“Just shy of a week.” The gunslinger hisses an obscenity or two and tries to push himself out of bed, still-hazy eyes fixing on Mason’s when the reverend puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “You’re recovering. No reason at all to leave this bed barring…the obvious…caretaking…things.”

“So the job got done?” He leans back against the pillows, rubbing at his chest and taking a few measured breaths, “Who killed the chupacabra?”

“…No one. We haven’t gotten to the job yet,” Mason admits, quick to reach out when Clayton tries to shoot out of bed again, spitting curses like a cat thrown in a tub.

“What the fuck has been the hold up, we ain’t gonna get paid if we don’t-“

“You can’t get out of bed-!”

“-Case of the goddamn sniffles and y’all just bolted like-“

“_Clayton, you nearly died_!” The Reverend snaps and Clayton is taken aback, looking up (when had Matthew leaned in so close?) as Mason looms over him. Matthew closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath, smoothing out the furrow in his brow and the frustrated curl to his lips before he opens them again and looks down at Clayton. “Thank the lord you didn’t. But you were delirious, suffocating on the contents of your own lungs. You couldn’t _breathe properly,_ let alone _move_...so no, we didn’t finish the job. Because you are more important than whatever kind of fuss Swearengen kicks up or how much money he throws at us.”

Clayton is silent save his still harsh sounding breaths, glassy eyes fixed on the man above him and cheeks flushing deeper than it had in days (‘the fever returning?’ Mason wonders for a fear-stricken moment), and a quick brush of his hand over the gunslinger’s forehead only serves to startle him out of his quiet reverie, smacking his hand away.

“Leave me be, Preacher,” he grumbles, burying his face into the crook of his arm to cough rather painfully.

“Funny thing, my watch is until dawn, so unless you want me to wake Arabella for next watch, you’re stuck with me.”

“…Fine.”

It isn’t long before Clayton starts to drift off again, the exhaustion from working himself up like that taking what little energy he’d regained, his breathing evening out into snoring as his face slackens in sleep.

And if Matthew spends more of his watch than can be justified by ‘cautious observation’ just watching the man sleep, then that’s between him and the room.

-

—

——

—

-

“I need to get out of here.”

“You _need_ more rest-“

“So help me, Arabella, if I’m stuck in this bed for one more fuckin’ minute I’m gonna _burn the whole place to the ground._”

The argument is clearly audible at the end of the hall, bringing out a sigh from Matthew. The slowly growing periods of time he’s able to retain consciousness is a good sign in terms of Clayton’s gradually replenishing energy and health but a bad sign for the rest of the group’s dwindling patience as he snarls and fights every moment he’s been on bed rest and aware enough to know he’s there.

“We’ll take a walk then-“

“I ain’t some fuckin’ dog you can walk around the neighbourhood_-_“

“Perhaps,” Mason speaks up as he enters the room, seeing Arabella (about ready to knock Clayton out if it’ll mean he’ll stay in bed another day) and Clayton (on the edge of making an ill-advised dash for the door), “if we changed up accomodations? The church’s residential quarters have been repaired enough, maybe a change of scenery will help?”

Clayton’s eyes narrow further but he doesn’t immediately snarl out a refusal. He and Mason’s interactions have been strange to say the least. Often fraught with aggressive posturing from Clayton (a defence mechanism, according to Miriam, from a man clearly afraid of being seen as vulnerable) and barely maintained patience from the Reverend during the now less vigilant watch shifts that had turned into practically force-feeding Clayton his medicine and making sure he didn’t knock himself out trying to get out of bed.

“…I’m not lookin’ to trade in one cage for another.”

“And we’re not looking to be your warden,” Arabella replies, gathering her coat. “But unless you can promise you’ll actually take proper care of yourself and not just work yourself into an early grave trying to ‘make up’ for your time recovering, then I’d rather deal with your…_bitching_.” She turns to Matthew and, through grinding teeth, “his next dose will be needed in two hours. Enjoy,” she says with a strained, sarcastic smile before she leaves the pair alone. The Reverend turns his attention to Clayton who tries his best to sink further into the bed, sulking like a child denied a treat.

“Was that really necessary? You’ve driven the good lady Whitlock to obscenities.”

Clayton lets out a huff and rolls his eyes.

“_She’s_ drivin’ me to madness,” he glances to Matthew, his ire shifting from the now absent chemist to the only other present individual. “You too.”

“Mister Sharpe,” something about the address makes the gunslinger bristle but he makes no comment. “You’ve only just started getting better and we’re only trying to keep it that way.”

“_I’ll be fine_ _on my own_-“

“Then prove us wrong. Convince me-“ Mason sits himself down in the chair beside the bed, staring Clayton down. “Convince me that you won’t just go straight back to work and will actually _rest_ and _take your medicine_.”

Clayton opens his mouth but hesitates, closing it again with a huff. He shrinks further into the bed, shoulders tense and fingers tapping rhythmically on his biceps but not arguing against the accusation and Matthew wonders for a moment if its because he _can’t_ lie to him or _won’t_.

“I don’t think some fresh air will do all that much harm,” Mason muses, seeing the other man perk up a little in bed, then immediately shrink back down with a grumble.

“Don’t need your charity, _Preacher.”_

“Don’t think of it as charity, then. Think of it as wanting to experience a walk and a conversation with you that isn’t about how much you hate me,” Mason offers, seeing the way the gunslinger shuffles in the bed.

“I don’t _hate_ you.”

“Well you’ve done an amazing job convincing me otherwise,” the conversation leaves Matthew feeling a little flustered so he distracts himself at least a little by busying himself tidying up the room and adjusting the pillows behind Clayton.

“…I think this is the closest to a dressin’ down from you I’ve ever heard. Didn’t take you for the tough love type.”

“Well, I love you, so tough,” Matthew says as if reciting an old script, realising all too suddenly what he said and how it must sound. He feels the way Clayton tenses in the bed as he finishes adjusting the pillows and pulls away, sensing his gaze fixed solely on him. “Sorry. An old…Something an old friend used to say.”

He can see Clayton picking at non-existent loose threads on the blanket, no longer staring directly at the preacher but focusing on him with no less intent. Mason thinks he can hear him mumble something, almost sounding like he’s sulking again, but the Reverend doesn’t comment further and starts to collect Clayton’s things from around the room.

“What’re you doing?”

“We’re changing scenery,” he say, draping Clayton’s coat across the foot of the bed while he brings him his boots and some well-worn socks. “You’re not the only one getting sick of this room and Miss Whitlock suggested herself that a walk is in the realm of possibility for you,” he explains, pausing beside the bed, one hand holding the man’s boots and the other hovering over the covers, a silent request for permission. Clayton cautiously throws the blanket aside, looking up at Mason with narrowed eyes; gauging, unsure of this new shift in their interactions while the priest just continues on as if this is all perfectly normal.

Mason kneels on the floor beside the bed, looking up at Clayton expectantly.

“Unless you’d rather stay?”

“No!” Clayton flushes a little at the outburst, shifting in the bed to let his legs drop off the side and his feet rest on the floor, toes just brushing Matthew’s knees. “I mean, co-come on, I wasn’t jokin’ about razin’ the place.”

If Clayton has something to say about the small smile that makes its way onto Matthew’s lips, he doesn’t say it out loud.


End file.
